Battle Scars
by Noise And Hammers
Summary: Sherlock gets shot, and John, as always, answers to the call of duty. A short fic inspired by SamanthaJ221's "Heart On Fire." More info inside.


NOTE:

I wrote this on crumpled loose leaf paper with a ball point pen during band class, because inspiration is shameless.

So, because I absolutely love SamanthaJ221's Sherlock songs (ever so affectionately called "Shrock") I have decided to make a fic based on one of them. The song is entitled "Heart On Fire," and it literally made me cry the first three times I forced myself to listen. I still get choked up with I hear it, but it's beautiful.

Here's a link: www. soundcloud .com/samanthaj221/heart-on-fire

SamanthaJ221, you're awesome. :D

* * *

><p><span>BATTLE SCARS<span>

John Watson stood at the foot of the bed. His flat mate lay limply on the mattress, barely breathing, slightly twitching. The swabs and bandages the doctor held in his hands dripped shamelessly, speckling the wooden floor with the detective's blood. He'd known it was a bad idea, that Sherlock wouldn't return unscathed, not this time. John put the sopping wad down in a metal bowl and approached the side of the bed. Sherlock laid still, a reddened gauze bandage tightly wrapped around his right shoulder. John took his friend's limp hand.

_Oh Mr. Holmes, my mutineer_

_I haven't felt alive in years_

It was unexpected, the gunshot, the bullet. John had noticed it before Sherlock did—a rare but shocking occasion. Unfortunately, however, the sniper in the window had had a quicker finger than John had calculated. By the time John had plowed into Sherlock, trying to shove him out of the bullet's path, the bullet itself had already rippled through the air, tearing cleanly though Sherlock's right shoulder. Sherlock had fallen, writhing, on the ground as Lestrade and the other police on the scene took to a defensive formation, guns drawn. John pushed himself up off Sherlock, his hand pressed flat in warm, pooling crimson. John's inner soldier had kicked in then, and numbed to all else around him, he moved. One thought, one course of action: save his life.

_Just falling through the atmosphere_

_Until you took my hand_

When dealing with mob bosses and hit men, these types of things were expected, but as Lestrade sped through London, swearing up and down again, John was deaf and dumb to all else. He was completely focused on Sherlock. Sherlock, who was now lying against him in the back seat, bleeding and groaning and fading fast. John fought panic. John's hands were pressed firmly on Sherlock's wound, blood seeping through his fingers. Sherlock was shaking, clenching his teeth, growling in pain, gripping John's jacket with wild eyes.

"Stay with me, Sherlock. We're almost there."

"Ah!..hah…John…it hurts!..."

"I know, just stay away. Stay with me, mate. You're going to be ok."

Lestrade was driving recklessly enough to arrest himself, but eventually they had made it. Bart's was too far from their location, and they had to settle for Scotland Yard's infirmary. John gathered Sherlock in his arms, ignoring his yelps of pain, and quickly made his way into the building, not bothering to wait for anyone else. He was on the battlefield, his mind far away from London, and Sherlock was his wounded soldier.

_Such force within me, you inspired_

And so John had frantically smothered the bloody concave in Sherlock's vanilla flesh, numb to Sherlock's cries and resistance, his trained hands moving swiftly, a blur of expert methodic procedure, and after what seemed like eternally agonizing minutes, Sherlock had fallen into a stupor of pain and blood loss, rendering his limp body into the hands of Doctor John Watson completely. And John had fixed him. The detective's mangled shoulder wound was patched neatly with gauze and medical tape, and John finally sat on the edge of the bed, gazing sadly at the ebon detective's chest, rising and falling slowly. He heaved a sigh and placed a hand on his own shoulder, a searing, hidden scar that he was well aware of. He pressed gently with his other hand on Sherlock's bandages. A bullet through the shoulder: a mark, a scar. Curious, how the world made its rounds.

_Like a current through lifeless wire_

Only now, when all was said and done, had John allowed the fear to shudder through his frame. He trembled at the images flashing before him, the thoughts that invaded his mind. He could have lost Sherlock. He could have been alone. Just a centimeter or two in the wrong direction, and Sherlock would have been dead, lost from him forever.

The idea made tears involuntarily spring from the thresholds of the doctor's eyes, and with trembling, blood stained hands, he wiped frantically at his face. Life without Sherlock scared him so thoroughly that it caused him near physical pain. John swallowed, forcing calm, reclaiming himself from the frenzied, turbulent storms of fear and worry of what could have been.

_You're driven by a heart on fire_

"John," Sherlock breathed. John sniffed.

"I'm here."

Sherlock smiled weakly at him, his eyes a hazy steel.

"Well now, doctor," he said quietly. "We've got matching battle scars."

John chuckled and lightly pat Sherlock's hand.

"Yes, we do," he said. "Though if it weren't for me, you'd have that battle scar right in the back of your stupid head." Sherlock smirked and sighed, closing his eyes. Safe.

John swallowed then, staring at the silver eyes that now suddenly meant the world and all else.

John shook his head and gripped his friend's hand. Yes, Afghanistan would follow him wherever he went, for sure, but that was fine. So long as Sherlock Holmes was there to fight the war with him, it was all fine. Battle scars and all.

_And they'll never understand._

_FIN_


End file.
